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muRdeR booK mEmORieS

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bY < vOyA >

“All those chattering traumas
still haunt me.” – ANON

Remember the beginning of this…
I’d be there and you’d just ignore me.

That beautiful hair of yours all slicked back. Tramp-crazy man with all your warm confidence, swooning about. Nobody would have suspected you. Nobody. Certainly not me. The mysterious Brothel Boy with all his secrets just so damn charming and nice…

Pretending I wasn’t there for so long.
No words. Fucking nothing. And then > well, not wanting me to walk home in that “chill darkness” > your words as you stood over me that first time.

Talking finally in that high, soft whisper.

> > >

… We know our Melbourne at night > that misty rain and blurry-edged moonless world. Not still enough in those quiet quiet hours. Always not quite safe. A chance I liked to take … 30 minutes alone out there like that.

Night after cold cold night.

But then, no more.
That’s what you said. But I did once. Remember? 3am in that swirling fog and I hadn’t told you where I was. You were fucking some chiK I’m sure. And I was called in. I didn’t think. I know that now. I should have messaged you or something. But I didn’t …

And then > those shadows in the mist. Me walking home. Faster faster footsteps because I was so sure somebody was following me. I nearly rang you … but my legs were so sore, my heart almost cramping > all that pain as I turned the corner. And then, being pushed suddenly against that car mechanic’s wall. My mobile falling to the footpath.

You, speaking to me in that scary, bloodless tone.

How filthy it all was. Black-smeared bricks and steel doors; that damn sign squeaking on its hinges as you rammed into me.

Bedroom-wear in your car.
That’s what I’d imagined.

> > >

[A small Melbourne bar. 2am. Smoky, dark > muffled electronica beats. Red couches, low ceilings, a lite fireplace.]
me > Hi.
you > Hello. How are you?
me > Good. I’m good.
[He sits next to her.]
you > Hey, you look nervous.
[He sounds playful. But seems angry.]
me > I am. I am nervous.
you > But why?
[He moves closer to her. Leans in. He won’t let her look away.]
you > I thought you liked me now. Don’t you like me? Come on …
[She hesitates and then says…]
me > I do. I’ve always liked you. Always.
[He suddenly moves his right hand behind her back. Then to her hip. Fingers grabbing her, pushing away clothing till he’s touching her skin.]
you > Why do you look so good tonight?
[She says nothing. Tries to move away from him but he forces her back. Harder this time. His hand beneath the band of her panties, gripping her there.]

[He moves closer. Whispers.]
you > I’m not drunk. And I’m not ignoring you.
me > … No no you’re not …
[Silence. Fingers into her now.]
you > Be scared with me.
[Nipping her neck.]
you > I’ll take care of everything.

> > >

“There’s a crazy guy with a gun… ”

Was that you? The crazy guy I mean.
It was, wasn’t it.

I make statements like you now >
this childish confusion of mine is clearing you see.


Mmm. I heard about you. About what you did.
The way you took her and fucked her like some scary animal. The utter hopeless helpless despair of that woman. The breath-taking viciousness of it all. And then > casually, in your car, travelling highway after highway to just dump her like that.

Dead weight clumping about in your boot. And you didn’t even fucking care. Like you knew some great secret of the immortals > never to be touched, never to be suddenly in some kind of fucking purgatory for ever for what you’ve done.

> > >

“After the first death, there is no other.”
Dylan Thomas. See, I remembered.

Damn. This. I’m thinking > maybe I should beg for plead time, Brothel Boy. To plead like the utterly desperate and impoverished… I mean, do I really have a choice?

Come on > let me beg you to come back here and see what you’ve damn well done. How this cut on my thoat hangs open now. All frozen and sinister and strangely creepy. And I mean, I know I should be cold and sore but I’m not. I’m not even hungry. Yet I fear that rotting tooth of mine is about to fall out. I was going to the dentist next week damn you. Tuesday, 4pm.


Ah. What day is it again? It’s night I know. But what day is it?
Please, come on. Tell me. I’m so enclosed here. Fucking do something.
Get me out of this crazy hole so I can get back into my life again.

I mean, I promise you…
I’m not so long forgotten.
Not yet anyway.

> > >

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  • Eric Olsen

    stylization to convey stylization -exceptional, thanks!